


In Liquid Form

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Chris, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Courtship, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Menstruation, Multi, Omega Stiles Stilinski, POV Stiles, Sharing a Bed, naps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: He wrapped his blankets around him more securely as he heard the stairs creaking. The alpha buttheads could show up unannounced and unwanted all they liked, but nothing short of God His Own Self was gonna pry Stiles out from his blanket cocoon until he stopped feeling like his uterus was trying to murder him. They wanted to show up like this, they could deal with being ignored.

  Only it didn’t quite turn out that way.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XCuteAsHale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCuteAsHale/gifts).



> My very first Stetopher, and it is totally Cutie's fault. She is the one who created Fandom Hell, and then prompted me with this. I have never written Chris before. Because he scares me. 
> 
> So I am laying all of the blame for this on Cutie, and Dena, and Mysenia, and the other enabling enablers in Hell. And BelleAmante, for beta-reading. 
> 
> (Also, I am posting this a day early, because Cutie deserves nice things. So everyone should really feel quite grateful to her.)

Stiles’s dad poked his head in to yell about being late for class, but shut the door without a word upon seeing The Ball of Misery. Anything that wasn’t vitally important to his continued existence was going to have to wait.

Stiles kept his eyes closed and curled in on himself a little tighter. He’d already had to deal with waking up to his pajama pants stuck to him, sticky with blood. He was kinda pissed, but they were soaking in cold water, and luckily his sheets were spared, so after fiddling with the tampon and putting a pad in his Period Boxers just in case, it was back to bed to wait out the worst of this. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, but he didn’t reach for it. The screen would make his head throb, and literally every person that wasn’t his dad could fuck off right now.

He lied there, measuring his breaths and trying to ignore his body. But the more he thought about it, the more aware of it he became—of the dull ache in his pelvis, the radiating pain up his back, the way his head throbbed even with his eyes closed. He tried to remind himself that this part didn’t last long, that he just had to get through the first few days, that he was lucky because as a male omega it only happened to him a handful of times a year.

It didn’t help. Everything still sucked.

Because of the way light and sound both drove spikes into his brain, the sound of car tires crunching the gravel in his driveway was particularly obnoxious. Dad had left already, so hopefully it was just someone who was trying to turn around. Because Stiles was not putting up with anyone else’s shit right now. Not when he had more of his own to deal with than was fair. The creak of the front door opening made him grit his teeth. If it was one of the new fucking deputies sent to check on him in some bizarre hazing ritual, he was gonna make the entire fucking department pay this time. It would be cruel, unusual, and unforgettable.

His building rage was derailed by the sound of Peter’s voice. “Come on, Chris. Don’t argue with me.”

And, just. What? What the hell were Chris and Peter doing here?

Chris snorted. “Peter, I stopped arguing when you threatened to stuff me in the trunk. I’m here. Go soothe your neuroses and then let’s go—the Sheriff told us Stiles wasn’t well and wanted to be left alone, and I think he’s more than capable of determining what his son needs.”

What. The. Fuck. No. No, no, no, this was not happening. Stiles had never let them anywhere near him during his bleeds, was still trying to deal with the fact that he’d let them help him through his last heat, they should not be here. They should be nowhere near here. What good was a cop for a dad if he couldn’t even scare off his son’s intended mates?

He wrapped his blankets around him more securely as he heard the stairs creaking. The alpha buttheads could show up unannounced and unwanted all they liked, but nothing short of God His Own Self was gonna pry Stiles out from his blanket cocoon until he stopped feeling like his uterus was trying to murder him. They wanted to show up like this, they could deal with being ignored.

Only it didn’t quite turn out that way.

When they were near the top of the stairs, Chris’s voice took on an edge sharp enough to cut. “You smell that, right?”

Peter’s growl was what chainsaws wanted to sound like when they grew up, and he winced at the sound. “Of course I do, Christopher. I have better olfactory senses than you do.” There was a pause filled with indeterminate scuffling sounds. “No, don’t. Put the fucking pheromones away, he’s not being attacked, it’s his bleeding time.”

Well that was just grand. Whoop-de-fucking-do for werewolf noses. He’d applaud Peter, but movement. And noise.

The sound of the stairs creaking as his alphas went back down them was a relief and a disappointment. Which was ridiculous, because he didn’t want them to see him like this—miserable, sweaty, in pain, and bleeding like he was dying.

And yet, he couldn’t help but wish they’d want to see him anyway. After all, if their courtship ended as planned, the three of them would be partners. Mates. They’d see him like this a lot. They’d see him in a lot of states he’d rather they didn’t—like asleep and drooling, sick and throwing up, and even pregnant, one day—but that was part of the deal.

He huffed, angry at himself. Stupid fucking hormones, messing with his head. Ever since his heats and bleeds had started he’d all-but exiled Dad and Scott from the house until he was mostly-human again. That was the way he liked it, because not only did he feel absolutely disgusting, but no one else deserved to deal with his mood swings. It was like the appearance of blood made him want everyone else to match.

The stairs creaked again, but there were no voices this time. He wondered who it was, but really, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t moving, he was not equipped to people, fuck off, the end.

His bedroom door creaked open, and he grit his teeth against the urge to scream. He didn’t want to be seen like this, didn’t want to have how vulnerable he was right now acknowledged. Talking about it made it real in a way the pain alone didn’t, and would do nothing except make him feel worse.

But apparently Chris’s alpha stupidity outweighed his common sense, because the bed dipped under his weight. “Hey, sweet boy. I know you’re not feeling well right now, but Peter and I are here. We’re gonna make it better.”

Stiles snorted. “You fucking can’t, asshole. There’s no way to put an end to this without also stopping my heats and my ability to have babies one day. And you might have a daughter already, but I’m pretty sure Peter wants kids.”

Chris just chuckled. “You’re right about that. But if there’s one thing my wife and daughter taught me, it’s how to ease a bad period.”

Then Chris was unwrapping him from his blanket cocoon, and no-no-no, _hell_ no, that was not on. Stiles growled and tried to wrestle his covers back, but Chris won. He glared up at the dick. “You took my fucking blankets. Are you happy now?”

“Thrilled,” Chris deadpanned. And then the fucker landed a slap on his ass, making him uncurl in a reflexive jerk. There was a single excruciating pulse of pain before divine heat replaced it, making him moaned. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Stiles cracked an eyelid at his alpha-to-be. Chris had a small, crooked smile on his face, and his eyes were stupidly soft. Between that and the hot water bottle he was pressing to Stiles’s abs, it was almost enough to silence his annoyance. Almost.

When Chris rolled him over, it resurfaced. “I don’t give a shit if you’re an alpha, I will make you pay for all the fucking manhandling as soon as I can stand again.”

“No you won’t,” Chris replied, sounding amused and _fond_ , the dickbag. But then Stiles was curled up on his side around the hot water bottle, and there were thumbs kneading at his lower back right where the ache was the worst. He groaned in relief.

“No, I won’t.” He paused to enjoy the heat soothing his uterus—spiteful little thing—and Chris’s hands as they unknotted his back. “Correction: I will make you pay if you stop.”

Chris hummed. “Seems fair.”

The relief was like a drug, and he started feeling loopy. He kept meaning to bitch about Chris and Peter showing up unannounced, and ask why they thought it was a good idea when he specifically _told_ them to stay away, but what ended up coming out was, “Where’s Peter?”

Chris’s voice was quiet, and even though it was deep it didn’t hurt his head to listen to. “I sent him to the store. Figured you’d appreciate some chocolate, and I know how much you love soup when you don’t feel well.”

“An’ he _went_?” The idea was bizarre.

“Of course I did, darling.” Did thinking about Peter magically bring him here? That was for demons, not werewolves. But then, it was Peter, so. “As much as I detest playing errand-boy, Christopher was fundamentally correct—you need comfort. In liquid form.”

Peter came closer, and Stiles started squirming. He could smell chocolate, and coffee, and—“You got me one of those fancy spiced mochas?” he moaned.

Peter came round and sat on the other side of the bed, smirking as he presented the take-out cup. “Of course I did.”

Stiles lurched quasi-upright and made grabby hands at the cup. Which Peter—the dirty rotten _tease_ —moved back, and continued to dangle just out of reach until he was cradled back-to-chest between Chris’s thighs, still curled around the hot water bottle. Then and only then was he given his owed ambrosia.

Peter stroked his hair as he slurped greedily. As he was making love to the last sip, Peter asked, “What do you say?”

Not even the caffeinated goodness was enough to let that slide. He gave an exaggerated double-take. “What are you doing here, Peter? Especially after I told you and Chris not to come over today?”

Stiles’s tone was so pointed that he could feel Chris wince, and it mostly wasn’t aimed in his direction. Peter frowned. “If you’re having your bleeds, then we should—”

“—not butt in where I specifically told you to butt _out_ ,” Stiles interrupted.

Peter tutted. “Testy. I take it the pain’s bad this time?”

Stiles wanted to scream. “Of course it’s bad. It’s _always_ bad. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“You should have seen him, Stiles,” Chris murmured. He fought not to shiver as the warm breath drifted passed his ear. “He was just about losing his mind, his wolf demanding that he provide for you in your time of need.”

Peter looked away haughtily, but Stiles could tell he was a touch embarrassed. He nestled back against Chris, leaning his head against one broad shoulder. He snorted. “It’s not a time of need, just my quarterly trip through hell. I would have been fine, Peter.”

“You don’t need to be alone, though.” Stiles twisted until he could see Chris’s face. The expression on it was very neutral.

“I also don’t need you with me.”

“Stiles, if one of us was sick or hurt, or if your father was, you’d want to be present, correct?”

He whipped around to face Peter and glared. “You’re an ass, not stupid. Of _course_ I would be there.”

Peter curled a hand possessively around his ankle. “Then don’t expect anything less of us.”

And that.

That made him stop. From the look on Peter’s face, his heart did something ridiculous, which would fit with the warm feeling way too high up for him to blame on the water bottle. Not that he won’t try.

Peter nodded approvingly as his hand travelled up Stiles’s calf. He swallowed, eyes falling shut as another kind of heat bloomed. Below the water bottle, this time. He managed not to move into the touch, though the little hitch in his breath was clearly audible. Peter was dancing teasing fingertips up the inside of his thighs when Chris caught Peter’s wrist.

“He doesn’t need that right now.”

Peter mock-pouted. “I’m hurt that you think he doesn’t need me.”

Chris ground his teeth for a moment, and Stiles bit his lip so he wouldn’t giggle. Winding Chris up was terrible, but so much fun. Which was why he and Peter did it. “What he _needs_ is food. Where’s the soup?”

Peter raised an eyebrow and peeled Chris’s hand off his wrist. “Downstairs, in the kitchen, waiting to be made.”

Chris took a deep breath, his chest pressing tight to Stiles’s back for a moment. “Alright, I’m going to go make the soup, you stay here and look after him while I do.”

Peter rolled his eyes and slunk up the bed, tugging Stiles forward and off Chris. “Sir, yes sir.”

Stiles didn’t bother stifling his giggle that time. It was completely warranted. But rather than provoke them both further, which is what he’d been sure would happen, Chris gave a relieved smile and Peter snugged himself tight along Stiles’s side. Chris combed gun-calloused fingers through his hair before pulling away. “I’ll be back soon with that soup. You just cuddle with Peter and try to rest.”

“Okay.”

He planned to do nothing of the sort. Peter hid his smirk against Stiles’s neck, hearing the lie. Chris, however, lacking super-senses, just nodded and left. When his footsteps down the stairs had faded, Stiles let Peter guide them both onto their sides, Peter pressed against his back just as solidly as Chris had been.

“Care to tell me what you were lying about to dear Christopher?”

Stiles shivered, goosebumps popping up all over his arms as Peter whispered against the back of his neck. The heat of his mouth and the scrape of his stubble made him want to whine. “I kinda liked where your hands were heading earlier,” he admitted. He threw a challenging look over his shoulder. “I was hoping that you weren’t just being a tease and might finish what you started.”

Peter grinned, getting an elbow under him so he could lean over and kiss Stiles breathless. “Sweet boy, I would never.”

Stiles let his eyes close as Peter’s hand stroked down his side. “Good. Because I’ve also heard that orgasms help with cramps.”

“That they do.” Peter’s hand slid under the waistband of his pajamas and Period Boxers. He let out a breathy noise when gentle fingertips slid over flesh that was hot and swollen. “Hush, sweet boy. Wouldn’t want Christopher to come up here and find us disobeying orders.”

For whatever reason, that just made this hotter. He bucked, and Peter finally started working him over for real. It was brutally quick, pleasure blooming to life and rocketing through him at a dizzying speed. He was grateful that Peter clamped a hand over his mouth, or he would have wailed as he came.

Peter kissed his temple, murmuring, “Good boy,” before he slipped away to wash his hands. When he returned, he pulled Stiles back into the curve of his supernaturally-warm body.

Dopey and sated post-orgasm, his brain swimming in oxytocin from being cuddled and fussed over, Stiles struggled to stay awake. Chris was coming back, and there would be soup. He wanted to be awake for soup.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, or Chris coming back, but when he woke up sandwiched between the alphas and feeling better than he ever had during his bleeds, he hopefully asked, “Soup?”

Peter’s arms gave a careful squeeze, and Chris’s chest vibrated with a quiet laugh. “Yeah, baby. There’s soup.”


End file.
